


Didn't Mean To Two Time Ya

by byesexualniall



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-09-05 03:34:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16802830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/byesexualniall/pseuds/byesexualniall
Summary: Harry shows up at Niall's house unannounced, but someone else is already there.--“Hey,” Harry feels delighted, honestly, taking in the sight of Niall at the top of the stairs. It’s been so long since he’s seen him, his hair’s gotten so dark, his beard’s filled in so well. He looks amazing, Harry thinks, and there’s no point in denying it. “Long time no see.”“Harry, what the fuck?” Niall repeats, and that’s when Harry realizes they’re not alone.





	Didn't Mean To Two Time Ya

Harry’s bored, is the thing. He’s been pacing around his house for an hour, now, and he’s bored in a way he hasn’t been in decades, he thinks, bored the way he used to be when he was 14 and it was the ninth day of school holidays and he had nothing to do, nowhere to be, no one to see. Except now he’s 24 and making rounds barefoot through his Los Angeles mansion, the one he’s desperate to sell, and he has absolutely fuck-all nothing to do. He’s bored.

He’s supposed to be on break, Harry. HS2 is nearly wrapped, he can barely believe it, and it’s in the final stages of production now, they don’t really need Harry anymore, and he’s meant to be taking a nice, long, well-deserved break. Jeff had told him as much, clapping him on the back after they’d finished up in the studio and saying, “get some fucking sleep, H. I don’t wanna see your face until after Christmas.”

So Harry had fucked off. He went straight back to his house and he hasn’t left since, really, except to go to the gym every morning. He’s got a ticket back to London for next week, and he’ll stay there through Christmas, but he thought it would be smart to stick around in LA for a little while, make sure everything’s going alright with the realtor who’s trying to sell the place for him, tie up any loose ends before he leaves LA for a long, long while. That was a week ago, though, and there are no loose ends let to tie up, and Harry is fucking bored.

He could FaceTime Gemma, maybe. It’s been a while since he’s had a nice, long chat with her, but the time difference between London and LA is so terrible, it’s been years and he can never remember what time it is over there, and he doesn’t want to bother her, to call while she’s in the middle of something. They usually text first, anyway, to set up a time for a call. So Harry doesn’t. He paces.

His house looks, at this point, like it belongs to someone else. The house came furnished, so it never really felt entirely like Harry’s anyway, but it’s staged now, set up for open houses and potential buyers and all of the stuff that did belong to Harry—his pictures, his clothes, his knick-knacks, his life—is long gone, packed up and shipped back to London and New York ages ago. It’s set up so that anyone who walks in could imagine it being _their_ home, so that means anything that made it _Harry’s_ home had to go. And so it did.

Not that LA has felt like home to Harry for a long while, anyway.

He’s got his phone out, thumbing open the British Airways app and thinking about pushing his flight up to tomorrow, when something he forgot to pack catches his eye. 

They’re shoved all the way back under the bench in his breakfast nook, so it’s no wonder Harry missed them while he was packing. Shiny patent leather, worn at the pointed toe, and Harry’s been wondering, passively, where those boots got to for a while now. He used to love them, used to wear them almost every night on stage, was so fucking happy when Niall gave them to him for his birthday and—oh, _Niall_.

Niall’s in LA, too, Harry’s pretty sure. They haven’t spoken in a while, the two of them, but Harry thinks he saw something on Instagram the other day, some paparazzi picture, and he’s pretty sure he heard James talking about Niall to Ben when he called to say hello the other day. Niall’s here—there’s something for him to do.

He doesn’t text Niall to say he’s coming over—he’s pretty sure Niall changed his number a few months ago, vaguely remembers Liam saying something like that they last time they spoke on the phone—but he does, quickly, check Niall’s Instagram account. His last story is a video of the radio in his car, Slow Hands crooning from the speakers. But he can see out Niall’s windshield, just a little, at the top of the screen, and that’s definitely LA.

Excited, finally, for the first time in days, Harry gets down on his stomach to pull the boots out from under the bench. Sitting up, he shoves them on, grabs a sweatshirt, his wallet, his keys, his sunglasses, and gets the fuck out of his house.

\--

The drive to Niall’s isn’t too long, and it’s early enough in the afternoon, still, on a weekday, that traffic isn’t too bad. Harry listens to the rough cut of HS2 the whole way there, trying not to think about the places where Niall bleeds in—into his guitar skills, into his music, into his lyrics. He pulls into Niall’s driveway twenty five minutes later, ignoring the weird pitter-patter of his heart, the twist of something in his stomach, the way that his body always acts up when he thinks about Niall—or tries too hard not to think about him.

There’s a new car in Niall’s driveway, a huge, black Jeep Wrangler that doesn’t really feel like Niall’s taste. He must have gotten it as a gift from a brand, Harry thinks, as he fishes the spare key for Niall’s house out of his back pocket.

He’s had this key since Niall bought the house, back in the 1D days. It wasn’t really a big deal when Niall handed it off to him—Harry hadn’t bought a house yet and was sleeping on various couches around LA, and that included Niall’s—and, besides, they were so used to living in each other’s pockets, sharing walls in hotels, hearing each other fuck, bursting into each other’s rooms for no good reason. He used to barge into Niall’s hotel room unannounced just to use his shower, even when he had a perfectly functioning one in his own room. So he doesn’t feel weird at all, doesn’t think he’s crossing any lines, when he slips the key in the door and lets himself into Niall’s home.

The alarm system beeps twice, just a warning that a door has been opened, and Harry closes it tightly behind him. It’s in the low 60s today, freezing for LA, even in December, and he doesn’t want to let the air in. He’s sure Niall’ll complain about the cold if he does. He’s taking off his sweatshirt, opening his mouth to call out to Niall, wherever he is, when a familiar Irish accent says, “what the fuck?”

“Hey,” Harry feels delighted, honestly, taking in the sight of Niall at the top of the stairs. It’s been so long since he’s seen him, his hair’s gotten so dark, his beard’s filled in so well. He looks amazing, Harry thinks, and there’s no point in denying it. “Long time no see.”

“Harry, what the fuck?” Niall repeats, and that’s when Harry realizes they’re not alone.

Someone tall, dark hair, youngish face, is coming down the hall behind Niall, flitting out of one of the bedrooms like he owns the place. Harry squints, takes a few seconds and—oh, _that’s_ Shawn Mendes.

“Hey, dude,” says Shawn to Harry, as if they’ve met. “What are you doing here?”

The question makes Harry’s stomach feel like it’s boiling, being asked what he’s doing here. He has a key, for fuck’s sake, Niall’s his friend, for fuck’s sake, they’ve known each other for a fucking decade, for fuck’s sake. Sure, maybe it’s been months since they’ve spoken, and maybe Harry doesn’t even have Niall’s phone number anymore, but it makes complete, total sense for him to be here right now. What doesn’t make any sense is Shawn, barefoot and in sweatpants, walking around Niall’s house like it’s his own, asking Harry what he’s doing here like they know each other. It makes him mad, Harry realizes suddenly. And mad isn’t something he feels often.

Harry takes two deep breaths, the way his therapist Leanne taught him to. Then, he says, “I came by to see Niall. My mate.” He can’t help the way he narrows his eyes at Shawn.

“Couldn’t ya text first?” Niall asks. He’s bounding his way down the stairs now, and he doesn’t look unhappy to see Harry, thankfully.

“Didn’t expect it to be a problem,” Harry’s eyes are still on Shawn, who looks a little confused, still standing on the landing at the top of the stairs. “Don’t have your new number anyway.”

“For fuck’s sake, Harry, it’s not a problem. But—” Niall holds on the but for a minute, a smirk tugging at his lips, “this is why you should get WhatsApp.”

“Piss off,” Harry smiles, finally tearing his eyes away from Shawn and focusing his attention on Niall, who’s in front of him now, smiling, clearly happy to see him. He feels a little lighter as they both laugh.

“That would be too easy for ya, wouldn’t it,” Niall laughs, pulling Harry in for a quick hug. Niall claps his back twice, Harry lingers when he pulls away.

Shawn, at the top of the stairs, notices. “It’s good to see you, Harry,” he says, making his way down. Harry doesn’t like how Niall turns away from him to look at Shawn, doesn’t like the way it makes his stomach boil over again.

“I’m sorry,” Harry doesn’t know when he mastered the art of being so cooly cruel like this, but it comes easy. “Have we met?”

“H—” says Niall. He doesn’t finish the thought.

“I guess we haven’t, actually,” Shawn still sounds a little too cheerful for his liking. “But I’m such a fan. I think my manager and Jeff go way back, too. Jeff gave me a yellow Treat People With Kindness shirt, a while ago, said it was from you. I love it, thanks.”

Harry _had_ done that, actually, told Jeff to give Shawn the shirt. But that was before, and this is now. “Did he? I didn’t know. How nice of him. We give out so many of those, I lose track sometimes.”

Slowly, Shawn is getting it. Niall, standing somewhere in between the two of them, caught on a hundred years ago.

Harry watches intently as Shawn puts two and two together, swallowing thickly while he works it out. Harry’s not sure what he’s thinking, but he doesn’t want to correct him as he looks back and forth between him and Niall. Niall doesn’t say anything, either. Until:

“Hey, bro, I think Harry and I’ve some catching up to do.”

“Oh,” Shawn’s eyes widen a little, still slow on this uptake. But he nods, says, “sure, man. I should get going, anyway, I’m supposed to call my team in a few. I’ll just run and get my things.” And then he’s gone, bounding back up the stairs to collect his shit. And Harry and Niall are alone.

They’re silent, though, Harry and Niall, waiting for Shawn to leave. They can hear him upstairs, clattering around as they stand just a little too close to each other. Harry can practically feel Niall’s emotions radiating off him—anger, he knows, but they’re excited to see each other too, there’s no denying that. He doesn’t know when this, when Niall, became so nuanced.

It’s less than ten minutes before Shawn is rushing back down the stairs, tan leather holdall slung over his shoulder, skinny jeans replacing the sweatpants he’d been wearing before. He doesn’t look at Harry at all as he says, “I’ll see you later, man. Text me?” to Niall.

“Yeah, for sure,” Niall tries, but Shawn is already halfway out the door, pulling it tight behind him.

There are about forty seconds of silence before Niall and Harry speak at the exact same time:

"What the fuck was that?”

“Does he fucking keep his shit here?”

Fifteen more seconds of silence while they stare at each other. Then, Harry, “if I go upstairs right now, will I find more of his shit?”

“Why the _fuck_ would you go upstairs looking for his shit?”

“Oh, so I will?”

“No, you won’t.”

“You won’t mind if I do, then.”

“Yes, I will absolutely fucking mind.”

“Why? You’ve got nothing to hide, right?”

“ _Why_? Because it’s my fucking house and I don’t want you rooting through my shit.”

“What’s wrong with that? We don’t keep secrets from each other. I’m not going to find anything I don’t already know about, right?”

“We haven’t seen each other in _months_ Harry, what the fuck are you on about, not keeping secrets? I haven’t told you _anything_ , let alone my secrets, in ages.”

“So he is a secret, then. Shawn?”

Niall looks at Harry, for just a second, like he’s the stupidest person he’s ever met. Then, he says, “why the fuck would Shawn be a secret? I post on Instagram all the time, the two of us—not that you would know, I guess, seeing as you still don’t follow me.”

“I need to follow you on Instagram to know when you’ve got a boyfriend?”

“Have you hit your head? Did you drink too much last night? Smoke on your way over here? You shouldn’t drive while high, Harry, you absolute fucking imbecile.”

“Fuck off.” Harry feels weird, now, and he still can’t quite place his anger from before. It feels like the only thing in the world is Niall, standing across from him, looking furious. He wants to stop this, do anything to make it so Niall isn’t mad at him anymore, but. He can’t stop saying shit.

“You’re such a fucking idiot. On what planet is Shawn my boyfriend? He doesn’t even like—Jesus Christ, Harry, I tell you I like blokes in confidence and you start assuming every dude I hang out with is my boyfriend? I—God, fuck,” Niall drags a hand through his hair, so dark it makes Harry’s heart twinge. So much time has passed. “I should never have told you.”

“No,” Harry’s voice goes soft. “No, I’m glad you told me. I’m really—I’m honored you told me.”

“Yeah, well,” Niall sighs, sounds a little less angry. And how could he be angry, when they’re talking about that night? Harry thinks, softly, of that night, that final night of One Direction, that night at the X Factor. How Liam and Louis headed home, back to their girls, and how Niall and Harry didn’t—how they couldn’t quite call it quits, not just yet. So Harry went home with Niall, one last night before everything changed, clinging onto what they’d known for so long, what they’d willingly said goodbye to. And how they laid on Niall’s couch for hours and hours and hours, legs tangled up under a sheepskin blanket, talking about nothing and everything until the sun was bleeding over the dark, December horizon and Niall said, tired but deadly serious, “I think… I’ve been thinking, noticing, that I—I don’t just look at girls.”

And how Harry, surprised but eager not to make Niall feel alone, said, “me too.”

And how Niall, laughing, said, “yeah, I know, Harry.”

They hadn’t said anything more about it—Harry didn’t want to push, could tell that Niall just wanted to get it off his chest and out into the air, to remove some of the weight of carrying that around, to share that weight with Harry, who was more than happy to help bear it. They never mentioned it again, after then. Until now.

“I was glad I told you, too,” Niall says, snapping Harry out of daydream, off that warm, soft couch in London and back to the hard, hot interior of Niall’s LA home. “But now I’m sort of regretting it, if this is how you’re going to fucking act.”

“No, I’m not, I’m—sorry,” Harry sighs, deep, from that part of his lungs that he doesn’t always reach when he breathes normally, then, “you guys are just friends?”

“ _Yes_ , we’re just friends,” Niall sounds exasperated, but he hasn’t kicked Harry out yet, and that’s reassuring, at least. “He’s not into guys and I—I wouldn’t, with him, even if he did. Why the fuck does it matter?”

“It doesn’t.”

Niall gives Harry that look again, like he’s the dumbest person he’s ever met, before he rolls his eyes and says. “Fine. Whatever. Are you gonna come in, then?”

Niall doesn’t wait for Harry to answer, just walks out of the front hall and deeper into his expansive home. And that’s what it is, Harry thinks, as he follows Niall through the hall, through the living room, and into the kitchen, a _home_. This house is filled with Niall’s stuff: his guitars on the wall in the living room, his records on the shelves, a seemingly endless collection of awards displayed near the TV, a pair of shoes by the back door, cups sitting out on the counters, a notebook on his couch with lyrics inside, a sweatshirt Harry recognizes balled up on the floor by a chair—it’s like the way Niall’s hotel rooms always were on tour, the way they felt lived in, comfortable, real, less sterile than Harry’s, even though they were identical. There’s something about Niall, just, that makes every place feel like a home.

“D’you want something to eat, or?” Niall calls over his shoulder as Harry settles into a seat at the breakfast bar. Niall’s kitchen is bright and white and clean but still homey—tea towels a little dirty draped over the handle on the oven door, a plate in the sink, a loaf of bread out on the counter. It makes Harry feel like he’s at his mum’s house, only if his mum’s kitchen was three times its actual size.

“Are you eating?” Harry asks. Niall is busying himself cutting into a baguette, though, so Harry feels a bit stupid for asking. Again.

“Was about to make lunch when you showed up,” Niall isn’t looking at Harry. “Scared the shit out of me, by the way, when I heard the alarm. I thought you were a fucking rabid fan, or a journo or something, almost shit meself.”

“Sorry,” Harry laughs, eyes trained on Niall’s back as reaches up to the cabinet for a couple of plates. “I didn’t think, really. I still have my key, so I just thought.”

“Do you need a place to stay or something?” Niall turns around now, holding two sandwiches. “Have you sold your house? I’m going back to Mullingar in a couple of days but you can stay here if you need—”

“No, no. I just thought I’d come say hi.”

Niall looks confused, this time, as he puts the plates down on the marble of the breakfast bar. They clang in the big house, in the silence of the room. “Why?” he finally asks.

“Why not?”

“I—Harry. We haven’t spoken in months. The last time I called you didn’t pick up and never called back. It’s not normal to do that and then just show up at my house out of the blue.”

“Nothing about our lives is normal, Niall.”

Niall sighs, doesn’t laugh like Harry expected him to. “You know what I mean,” he says, sounding tired. “It’s weird, to stop talking to me for months and then just show up at my front door like it’s nothing, yelling about me having friends over.”

“You stopped talking to me, too,” it’s weak, Harry knows, he’s the one who didn’t answer the last time Niall called. But Niall never tried again. It’s a two way street, he’s been telling himself for the past half a year. Niall doesn’t want to talk to him, either.

Niall sighs like he knows what Harry’s thinking, like he always does, and bites into his sandwich instead. There’s nothing for Harry to do but look down at the identical sandwich Niall has prepared for him: chicken and lettuce and pesto mayo and some kind of cheese he can’t be bothered to identify, all on a sliced baguette. He doesn’t do sandwiches often, Harry, tries to be cautious with breads, but it looks so good, and Niall’s tucking into it with abandon, and Harry’s never had a sandwich Niall made that wasn’t good, so he shoves it into his mouth. It’s fucking delicious.

They eat in silence, just the sounds of each other chewing, and Harry’s mind feels like it’s running on a hamster wheel. He can’t tell, he can always tell with Niall but right now he can’t tell. He doesn’t know just how mad Niall is, why Niall’s sitting here in silence, why Shawn was here, why, on Earth, he’s been passively ignoring Niall for so long.

Because, really, Harry thinks to himself, look at him.

It’s that feeling, again, that he swallowed for years and years, that nagging feeling in his stomach that sometimes makes him feel sick, sometimes makes him want to cry, sometimes makes him want to rut off against the bedsheets for hours. That realization that Harry is attracted to Niall, thinks about Niall, wants Niall, under his hands, in his bed, writhing, skin on skin, eyes blown out, mouth wide open, fingers pulling at hair, begging, swearing. He’s been swallowing this feeling for as long as he can remember, but it’s there, always, right in his throat, pressing against his Adam’s apple, desperate to escape.

And, normally, it doesn’t take much to convince Harry not to go for it. It’s not like there’s a shortage of people for him to get off with in Niall’s place, afterall, not like there’s a shortage of smooth, tan shoulders for him to bite into as he comes and swallows Niall’s name. It’s always been a bad idea, him and Niall, disastrous even—all he has to do is think about Louis to remind himself how catastrophic it would be.

But.

There’s nothing to lose, anymore. No more One Direction. They haven’t even spoken in months. Harry could just lean over and kiss him, right now, baguette mouth and all, and it wouldn’t make things any worse. He really could.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he swallows a mouthful of sandwich and says, “so, what were you and Shawn getting up to anyway?”

“We were writing a song,” says Niall, harsh, eyes narrow. “That okay with you?”

“He brought an overnight bag just to write a song?” Harry’s not sure why he can’t stop being a dick about this—it just keeps coming.

“He came straight from the gym, you fucking idiot. It’s his gym bag.”

“A leather gym bag? That doesn’t seem… practical.”

“Oh, like you can talk about practicality. Suede boots in the pouring rain, sheer top unbuttoned to your fuckin’ crotch most of the time; king of practicality, you are. I’m sure you’d never consider a leather gym bag. That’s just too absurd.”

“Alright,” Harry holds both his hands up. They’re sticky from the pesto mayo. “Alright, I’m sorry. I was being a dick.”

“Yeah,” Niall’s not done. Not yet. “You were.”

They sit in silence, heavy and uncomfortable, like humid air on Harry’s skin, until he can’t take it anymore. “Can I hear the song?” He asks. Anything to fill the silence.

“No,” Niall pulls Harry’s empty plate away from him. “You can’t.”

“Why not? We used to send rough cuts to each other all the time—even after… I was the first person to ever hear The Tide, remember.”

Niall’s got his back to Harry, now, standing at the sink to wash their plates, and he’s doing that thing, again, where he does normal tasks passive aggressively—the tap is on full power, he’s really putting his shoulder into scrubbing, he throws the sponge down when he’s done, slams the plates onto the drying rack so the sound of it echoes in the kitchen and Harry worries, for a second, that they’ll break. They don’t, and Niall has no choice but to turn back around and face Harry.

“That was a long time ago, Harry.” The front of his shirt is wet from where he was leaning against the sink—he had the tap on so strong he splashed all over himself—and it’s clinging to his stomach, showing off the way he’s filled out in the half a year since Harry’s seen him, a little tummy that wasn’t there before, the line of his Calvins peeking over the top of his Levis.

Harry can’t stop staring, his mouth feels dry when he says, “not that long ago.”

“Feels like it,” says Niall, a little softer this time.

“I’m sorry,” Harry offers.

Niall, hands in his back pockets to keep him from chewing on his nails, seems to understand what Harry means, gets that he’s sorry for barging in today, for acting like a child about Shawn, for disappearing for six months. In the way he always has, Niall _gets_ Harry, without Harry having to say much of anything at all.

“S’alright,” Niall sighs, sounded resigned, but not unhappy. It’s too much energy to be mad at Harry, most of the time, and there’s no point—it won’t last long. Harry always creeps back in for Niall, the way he used to crawl into Niall’s bunk on tour late at night, the way he used to let himself into Niall’s hotel rooms just as Niall started thinking about him, as if he could read his mind, the way he used to bleed into Niall’s thoughts while he was having a wank after a show, Harry sweaty and up in his face, grinding into him on stage, an impossible thought to banish. Harry always finds his way back to Niall. Niall always lets it happen.

“Do you want—” Niall starts, but cuts himself off when Harry’s phone rings. Caller ID says Jeff, and Harry knows he has to take it, makes an apologetic face at Niall as he swipes to answer.

Leaning back against the kitchen counter, Niall listens to Harry’s half of the conversation: “Hey… yeah… no, I don’t think so… don’t do it without letting me listen first… right now? It can’t wait?... yeah… kay… I can be there in 45 minutes, can you wait that long? Yeah. Bye.”

And then they both know what’s coming next: Harry, that he’s going to have to leave Niall upset with him, that he’s going to get home tonight and get into bed and his mind will wander to Niall, and Niall, that Harry’s going to leave and he’s not going to hear from him again for six months, and that he’ll still waste his time thinking about Harry, writing songs about Harry, fighting the churn of his stomach when he sees Harry’s been out with some other model. It’s the same routine.

“Sorry,” says Harry, standing up, pushing his stool back under the breakfast bar, “it’s a crisis. With production on the album. Jeff said he’ll make the executive decision but I don’t—I want to hear it for myself. And they can’t move on until this is settled, I’m sorry, I’ve got to go.”

Harry’s not moving, though. He’s standing there staring at Niall instead, eyebrows knitted together, a look on his face that Niall hasn’t seen in a very long time.

“Don’t worry about it,” Niall tries, “it’s whatever. You were the one who came here, anyway.”

“Right. I was.”

They make their way toward the door together, then, without a reason to stall. Harry walks slowly, deliberately, through Niall’s home, hesitating every few steps to look at a picture on the wall or an award on a shelf, but the door looms, gets closer and closer, until there’s nowhere to go but out.

“Thanks,” says Harry, a cramp tugging at his stomach, “for lunch.”

“It’s nothing.” Niall’s not looking at him.

“I guess,” Harry tries, “I’ll see you later?”

Niall looks at him then, just a flicker of a smile tugging at his mouth, sad eyes, and says, “yeah. Later.” And then he opens the door, the alarm beeping twice, and lets Harry out into the chilly Los Angeles afternoon.

\--

Later that evening Niall stands in his home studio, alone, chewing on his thumbnail, and listens to the song he and Shawn had made a rough recording of that morning. He listens to Shawn plucking his acoustic guitar, to his own voice singing the lyrics that only he knows are about Harry, and wonders if the universe heard him, this morning, and tried her best to work things out.

He blew it, if she did.

And across town, exhausted from the studio and today’s narrowly averted disaster, Harry lays back on the couch in his Los Angeles mansion, thumbs open the App Store on his phone, and hits download on WhatsApp.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so, so much for reading! it really means a lot to me. i hope you enjoy this even though the ending is a little different from what i usually do! 
> 
> this story was inspired by a post on tumblr but i can't figure out to hyperlink it on ao3.
> 
> also, sorry shawn.
> 
> thank you again for reading! if you want to talk niall, harry, narry, 1d, writing, or whatever, come find me on tumblr! my url is jinglebellhoran :) <3


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